


Splinter

by LadyFeste



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFeste/pseuds/LadyFeste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin Crieff and Sherlock Holmes have a secret, one they've been keeping from the people in their respective lives. They're quite happy with this, too, until threatened by a third party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a prompt on the Cabin Pressure kink meme. Sorry it's been taking so long.

“You’re back late,” John said as Sherlock entered the flat. “Interesting case?”

Sherlock hid a yawn—unsuccessfully by the way John was smirking at him—and shrugged. “No case,” he said. “Just family business. Dull. Painfully dull.”

“Mmm,” John said, going back to his newspaper. “You’ll be looking forward to a new case then?”

The detective blinked at his friend. “Why, have you got one? Lestrade wasn’t by was he?” He scanned John’s face for a moment, then scowled. “Tell Mycroft no amount of boredom can convince me to do his dirty work for him.”

John pursed his lips. “I wish you’d reconsider. I really don’t want to deal with another black fit right now. Unless you intend to disappear to your family in France again?”

“In a few days,” Sherlock said, checking his mental calendar. “Meanwhile, I’m going to bed. Heavens knows there is no good reason to get out of it. Wake me if someone gets mutilated.” John’s chuckling followed him as he walked into his bedroom and shut the door behind him, flicking on the light. He was tired—shared exhaustion was the only real downside of the arrangement—but he managed to ignore bed, criminal charts, and ongoing experiments and instead headed to the back wall, the one that looked oddly out of place with the rest of the room. This wall contained nothing but a large dry erase wall chart and dozens of note pads and sticky notes. Sherlock double-checked the wall chart, noting the day circled three days from now, and doubled checked his phone for any emergency flight plans. Nothing. He glanced back at the wall and began chuckling when he saw a note he hadn’t seen before, written in distinctively tidy handwriting unlike but not completely dissimilar to his own.

_Played Rhyming Journeys again. Lost. Again. Help? –M_

Sherlock uncapped the pen hanging from a string on the wall and took a sheet of paper from the pad on his nightstand.

 _Yangun to Cancun_  
Rome to Nome  
Glasgow to Moscow  
Syracuse to Toulouse  
Honolulu to Mogadishu  
Vienna to Siena  
Santa Fe to Mandalay  
Oaxaca to Osaka  
Perth to Fort Worth  
Bangalore to Singapore

 _About your Transatlantic flight in two days—I remain case free and John’s got some doctor thing in Scotland for two weeks, so feel free to stay over. My mind palace is infinitely more interesting than ordinary life. And take Mycroft’s bank card. He’s being irritating. I left it under your mattress._  
  
On an unrelated note, where did you leave my magnifying glass, the one John got me for Christmas? I couldn’t find it in your attic when I changed into my own clothes. –S

He taped the note to the wall, stripped down to his pants, and fell into bed, asleep almost as soon as he hit the pillow. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I don't have DID, nor do I know anyone who has it, but I've done some research and taken Sherlock's intelligence into account and am also using notes of magic-realism. Be gentle with me on that count, I'm still getting the hang of this myself.


	2. Chapter 2

Twelve days after the circled day, Sherlock woke in a lumpy bed in a cold, mostly bare attic. And his head ached. He groaned, more in irritation than pain, and touched his hand to his temple. He felt uncomfortably sticky. Probably because he was wearing Martin’s favorite pyjamas—sky blue satin with little airplanes, a gift from Sherlock when he’d gotten his pilot’s license. Another very small downside. Martin preferred pyjamas to skin. Sherlock had taken to buying them for Martin, because the idiot could never in a million years afford the good ones and Sherlock had gotten tired of waking up feeling scratchy. He sighed and fluffed his hair, glad Martin had had the presence of mind to get the trim Sherlock had been putting off He was even gladder that Martin hadn’t slicked back their curls the day before.

Martin hated the unruly curls. Sherlock hated Martin’s preference for short hair. They compromised, in the end. They’d gotten very, very good at compromising.

Sherlock sighed and stretched  to full height, glancing around the rather pathetic room. Small, cramped, bare, and nothing like Baker Street. Quiet down stairs. Students were gone. He didn’t know why Martin insisted on staying here when they had a perfectly good bed at Baker Street—wait. John. And independence. And other boring things like that. _You do understand, really,_ said a voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like John. _You just don’t like coming to here. That’s all._

Nothing else for it, really.

The bottom drawer of Martin’s dresser was full of Sherlock’s things. The detective stretched again and padded softly over to the dresser, the cold floor chilling his feet. If heat rises, why was it always so cold up here? Anomalies. Irritants. Irrelevant. Dull. John would be home soon. It would be best if the good doctor assumed he hadn’t left 221B. Where had he gone, anyway? He opened the drawer and pulled out his clothes, ignoring the note under the purple shirt that said _you realize this hasn’t fit since John started feeding you and the van business picked up again, right? –M._ He dressed, tossing the pyjamas on the floor despite knowing Martin hated that sort of thing. Socks went on first, then trousers, then shirt, ignoring the strain on the buttons.  He liked this shirt very much. He wasn’t ready to be rid of it just yet. His coat was hanging on the back side of the door, over Martin’s recently dry-cleaned uniform. Sherlock snorted and fished for his shoes under the bed, then for Mycroft’s card under the mattress. It had moved. Martin _had_ taken it. Good man.

Now, let the search begin.

They had only one phone, because both of them had jobs that required urgent responses to every message, and they kept their phone in the same places, so that was fine. Case notes—he’d taken some cold case files with him, in case Martin retreated and he came to unexpectedly. Where had Martin moved them? He glanced around at the desk with the ancient computer in the corner where he’d left them. No files. A new model plane, half-finished, but no files. They weren’t on top of the dresser, either. A quick check under Martin’s pillow revealed nothing but a slim hardback on World War II biplanes, which may explain Sherlock’s small, persistent headache. He slipped it back in place and knelt, glancing under the bed. Ah, a box. He pulled it out and opened it. Sherlock’s case was on top. He tossed it on the bed and slid the box back underneath.

A quick double check of the phone. A few messages from John that Martin had responded to with ludicrous experiment-related excuses, single words and sufficiently snarky remarks, probably borrowed from his first officer. Sherlock nodded absently. He didn’t really care where they came from, as long as they sounded enough like him. Martin had been getting better at that since becoming better friends with Douglas. He shot John a text in response to the most recent message and went back a bit farther. Martin had left him a memo—a new short flight to mark on his wall chart. He glanced at Martin’s own wall chart, hanging over a small bookshelf make of empty shoeboxes. Already marked there. Obviously. Martin was nothing if not fastidious. Sometimes Martin was nothing _but_ fastidious. But somehow a bit not boring.

The scarf. Sherlock had tried to leave it lying around, and Martin had tried putting it away, but the students had a habit of trying to steal it. The coat was safe. A larger, older, bullying student had once pushed Martin down the stairs and tried to run off with it. Martin had gotten dizzy and blacked out and Sherlock had come to, with an aching ankle and in a towering rage. The stupid boy had been caught and traumatized for life within the hour, and Sherlock had calmly taken his precious Belstaff upstairs and retreated, rather cruelly leaving Martin to dash off to the hospital with a badly sprained ankle from the fall. Since then no student dared to touch the coat, but the scarf was another story. They’d taken to hiding it.

Not in the dresser, that was obvious. Clever places. Under things, inside things, over things. Pillows, books, doorframes, student’s closets, even. Once, before a flight to Russia when he’d known he’d been gone for ages, Martin had gutted his desktop computer and stored the scarf in the empty shell, leaving Sherlock to praise his ingenuity and buy him a new flight simulator for helping him solve the case. He’d originally bought him a new computer, but Martin had refused it and that had gone to John. Where was it today? Sherlock ran his hand over the top of the dresser, then under the sheet on the bed and behind it. Something caught his eye as he was stepping back—wallpaper didn’t match up by the foot of the bed. He scraped a fingernail over the mismatched line and it peeled away smoothly. A small hole in the wall, caused by a foot, most likely—Martin kicked horribly in his sleep. Nestled inside was the navy cashmere scarf, covered in dust and splinters of wood, but safe. Sherlock smiled a little as he replaced the paper—matching the lines this time—and shook the scarf out.

Now for notes. Martin didn’t like them hanging all over his walls. The pilot didn’t have a nightstand, but he had left a notepad on top of the pathetic shoebox bookshelf. Sherlock stooped and picked it up, then smiled again and picked up the heavy brown magnifying glass underneath the pad. He stepped to the door and stowed the glass inside a pocket in his coat before sitting down at the desk and reading the small letter.

_Sorry about the glass. I was using it for a model and forgot to put it back. Hope you didn’t need it too desperately. Thanks for the journeys, too. Managed to beat Douglas, though he came back and slaughtered me in round two. If you’re feeling a bit queasy, it’s because Arthur’s latest cooking creation was hideous enough to make us all squeamish on smell. Carolyn sent home some chocolate biscuits as an apology, and they’re the kind we both like, so don’t you dare eat them all._

_Unexpected short trip scheduled, if you haven’t seen the wall chart or the memo on the phone, yet. DO NOT forget to write it down. This is an important client and Douglas out and out refused and Carolyn’s giving me a hundred pounds to work on my day off, and I need the money._

_Speaking of money, I didn’t take Mycroft’s card to America, only to Tesco’s. Sorry. You know he only tolerates me because you stopped the drugs for me; I didn’t feel that it was a good idea to do anything to irritate him more. The groceries are safe. What feeds me feeds you, too. Just don’t ask me to antagonize him, alright? He’s your big brother, not mine, and I find him a bit terrifying._

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. “Typical,” he mumbled, glancing down at the last paragraph.

_By the way, have you been coming to without warning me? I’ve been having blackouts, but I haven’t seen any new notes. –M_

The detective frowned and read the two sentences a second time, his stomach suddenly rolling. Not Good. Very, very Not Good. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Fireplane Up.”

“Nice, ooh, good one, Douglas. Uh…”

“Beggar of the Necklaces.”

“True. Um…”

“Humility and Acceptance.”

“Oh, I like that one. Uh…”

“The Indigo Number.”

“You could give me a chance, you know!”

“By all means, Captain,” Douglas said, nodding gracefully, his mouth twisting into a smug sneer.

Martin’s grip tightened on the wheel. He muttered to himself for a moment, lost in thought. “Uh…The…Um…The Lesser Gatsby?”

Douglas looked at him in amazement. “Yes. All right. Martin, you do realize that it is mostly impossible to take the opposite of someone’s name?”

Martin turned red from the tips of his ears to the tips of his nose and thought with a hint of wistfulness that Sherlock probably never had that problem, either. “Right. How about…The…First of the Mohicans?”

Douglas considered, then stuck out his lower lip and nodded. “Better. Getting better. Firstwalk.”

“What?” Martin shot him a strange look.”

“Opposite of Middlemarch, Martin.”

“Oh. Wouldn’t that be First  _run?_ ”

“Whatever you like. Neither of them are much of a march, are they? White Ugly.”

The captain snorted and leaned back in his seat, suddenly aware of a slight headache. “What about The Normal Case of Doctor Jekyll…Never mind.”

Douglas smirked. “Only one word to change there, too. Pleasant Yard.”

“Where do you _get_ these?” Martin burst, half in frustration, half in amazement. “Do you have some kind of…internal library in your head and just pluck books off shelves at random and read off the titles whenever you need them?”

That earned him a rather interesting look from his First Officer, a sort of cross between bemusement and arrogance. “That has to be the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my life. Worse than the emergency citrus pocket. Who would keep a room in their heads?”

Martin smiled sheepishly and bit back a giggle. “Wasn’t it _you_ who came up with the emergency citrus pocket?”

This time Douglas went red and turned toward the bright blue sky. “Uh, I have control, Martin.”

“If you like. Your turn to fly anyway.”

His headache grew. He sighed and shoved himself up by the arms of his chair, crossing his legs in the seat. He rubbed the back of his neck, willing the ache to go away. “Less Expectations? Or would it be lesser? Does expectations have an opposite?”

Douglas shrugged, then looked to the side and caught Martin starting to rub at his temples. “Headache, _sir?”_ he asked.

Martin didn’t respond. In fact, his jaw went a little slack as he stared into the sky His arms dropped to his sides. Douglas’ eyebrows furrowed. “Sir? Hello? Earth to Captain Crieff?” The smaller man remained still, his gaze fixed on some point on the horizon. “…Martin?” Douglas said, a little louder, a hint of worry creeping into his tone.

Martin suddenly blinked and rubbed his eyes. “Hmmm? S-sorry, D-d-d-doug-g-las-s, d-d-did you s-say something-g?”

Douglas’ eyebrows shot up and he flipped the cabin address on.  _Bing-bong._ “Carolyn, we may have to divert.”

“WHAT?” screeched both Martin and Carolyn’s voice over the speakers.

“Really, Douglas, I’m not sure what is more surprising; the fact that someone wants to divert for no apparent reason, or the fact that it’s not _Martin_.  You are aware it’ll come out of _your_  salary, as it is the only salary available for docking?”

“I do know that,” he went on. “Terribly sorry, but I think there may be something very wrong with Martin.”

“I’m fine, Douglas,” Martin argued, shaking his head. A bit too emphatically—one hand rose to his temple as he winced.

“See? He’s fine. No diverting.” Carolyn said.

Douglas glanced at his captain again. “Yes, that’s all very well and good, the both of you, but I do beg to differ. You see, I’m fairly certain our dashing captain just had something strikingly similar to an absence seizure.”

“ _WHAT?_ ” Martin and Carolyn rang again, Carolyn considerably sharper than last time. Arthur could be heard in the background saying something about a double jinx. “Quiet, Arthur. What do you mean Martin had a seizure?”

Martin was turning red again. “Douglas, I’m _fine._ I’m perfectly fine. I feel fine.”

“Except for that headache,” the first officer pointed out, and Martin dropped his hand, looking guilty. “He went completely slack for a few seconds, then snapped out of it, _stuttered_ out his next sentence, and didn’t look even a bit embarrassed about it.”

“Oh, dear,” Carolyn muttered, and Douglas could practically see her eyes growing dark.

Martin began twitching—a normal Martin twitch, nothing more, although Douglas was a bit scared at first. “No, I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine. No need to divert. No—“

“One more thing, Carolyn,” he added, eyes fixed on Martin. “I think it was his _second_ one this flight.”

And then Martin felt like throwing up, and his brain was on fire, and there was pressure everywhere, and he _remembered_ this feeling of holding something at bay, and felt even sicker, because the thing he was swallowing back didn’t feel like Sherlock at all. He went white, stood, and dashed out of the flight deck toward the bathroom. Douglas’ frown, and the creases between his eyebrows, deepened when he heard Arthur saying “Uh, Mum? Skip’s a funny color and his knees are shaking, even though he’s on the ground…”

“Right,” Carolyn said. “Douglas, you may divert.”

“Already working on it,” he said, fiddling with the radio.

Then came something unimaginable. Martin’s voice, distant and weak, but clear. “No, don’t divert! Don’t…don’t divert! Stay on course! I want…I need to go home.”

“Martin,” he heard Carolyn scolding, sounding fiercer than Douglas had ever heard before.

“No, Carolyn,” Martin said. “I’m serious. I insist. Home. No diverting, no random stops to strange hospitals. Just home.”

“Martin—“ Douglas began, raising his voice a bit. He heard something, like a whisper over the intercom.

“Oh, Martin,” Carolyn muttered. “How far are we from Fitton, Douglas?”

Douglas bit his lip and checked his watch. “Thirty-five, maybe forty minutes? Why, what did he say?”

Carolyn sighed. “He said…he said please. Stay on course for now. If he gets any worse, I’ll let you know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, this is my first time writing CP characters. So if their presence is sparse, that's why.


	4. Chapter 4

Martin was mostly recovered by the time they landed, though he was still a bit shaky, mostly out of fear. Douglas insisted on driving him home. He’d wanted to take Martin to the hospital, but Martin had put his foot down.

“I’ve half a mind to take you anyway, Martin,” Douglas said, pulling into Parkside Terrace.

“No need, Douglas. I’m just going to change out of my uniform and head to my own doctor.” Douglas looked at him as if trying to find the lie in the words. “Honest!” Martin said. “That’s all I _want_  to do. I promise.”

The older man didn’t look convinced, but he let Martin out anyway. He watched Martin walk around the front of the Lexus and rolled down his window. “Martin,” he called, and the man turned. “If…if there’s something wrong, you know you can always talk to me, right?”

Martin seemed to deflate, growing even smaller. “Yes, I know. Thanks, Douglas.”

“Quite. Can I give you a lift?”

“No, it’s a fair distance. I’m calling a cab.”

“If you’re sure…”

Martin cast him a nervous, Martin-y smile. “I’m sure. Go on, and don’t worry about me.” He waited until Douglas had driven off before dashing inside, thumbing over the number of the cab company Sherlock always used when going back to London. He couldn’t take the stairs two at a time without risking getting dizzy, and when Martin got dizzy his presence got weaker and he began retreating despite himself. He did rush as much as he could, however, and made it up to his attic in record time. As soon as he was sure his cab was coming he jerked open Sherlock’s drawer and began shedding his uniform. He tossed jacket, trousers, and shirt on the bed. He knew he’d regret it when he had to iron out the wrinkles later, but right now he couldn’t care less.

He pulled on Sherlock’s trousers and socks, wondering how on _earth_ Sherlock’s trousers were always an inch long on him. He left the garish purple shirt in the drawer—honestly, the man _had_ to see it didn’t fit them anymore—and pulled on one of his own shirts instead. He’d look ridiculous with thousand-pound hand-tailored slacks and an old green t-shirt (and Sherlock hated green, too, how unfortunate) but it couldn’t be helped. He slid into Sherlock’s shoes and stood on the bed to unwrap the scarf from the ceiling fan. Phone and scarf went into one of the huge pockets in Sherlock’s ridiculously comfortable coat, and the coat went on him last. Then it was back downstairs for as much a meal as he could manage before the cab came, because Sherlock was stupid about food and he didn’t want the detective passing out in case the whatever-it-was started fighting him, too.

 _This could get bad,_  said Martin’s conscience, and he didn’t have time to wonder why it sounded like Arthur. _You really should let Carolyn know. Douglas, at least. Maybe he can fix it._

That made Martin laugh, just a bit. It was Sherlock’s stupid head. The only person who could fix it was probably Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock floated back to his own body, and was a bit irritated about it. He’d very nearly solved an old case when he felt Martin backing away with that gentle _you have control_  sort of feeling, and now he was having a hard time remembering where everything went. He blinked a couple of times, listening to the sounds of a road. Cab. He was in a cab. Heading for…he looked out the window. London, from Fitton. And he was wearing one of Martin’s T-shirts. He hesitantly touched the top of his head. It was still slick with gel, but parts were askew, as if someone had run their fingers through it. More likely Martin had pulled at it in exasperation.

He stuck his hands in his pockets to find his scarf and phone. He wound the scarf around his neck before pulling out the phone. “Did I pay you before I got into the car?” he asked the driver.

The driver looked at him from the rearview mirror as if he’d lost his mind. “No, you said you’d pay when you got to London. Is there something wrong with you? Your voice sounds funny.”

“Everything’s fine,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and checking the date on his phone. Martin should have just returned from Germany. He scanned his messages. A few from John, replied to by Martin, one from Mycroft pestering him about some triviality, a few from Lestrade saying there was a case to be had at home.

And three saved drafts that made his hand shake a little.

_It’s getting worse, Sherlock. Two small blackouts in the flight deck, and I had to fight to come back. It’s strong, whoever it is. We’re both lucky Douglas had control. What if it happens again and I’m flying? I can’t risk that. We can’t risk that. –M_

_Why can’t you even have multiple personalities like a normal person? —M_

_Sherlock, I’m scared. –M_  

There was an undertone to that, too, Sherlock knew without looking, because it had been a recurring fear of Martin’s ever since they were fifteen and Sherlock silenced his first splinter personality. _What if one comes who is less boring than me?_

He opened a new draft and typed a quick message. _I meant it when I said I’d only ever share my head with you. We’ll get it sorted. –S_   He hadn’t had any strange blackouts yet, which meant the third party was only pressuring Martin, the weaker presence. It had to be smart. It was strong—and on some level, it was aware that it wasn’t alone.

 

* * *

 

“There you are, Sherlock, where have you been?” John said, phone in one hand, jacket in the other. “I was about to go looking for you. Lestrade and I have been trying to get a hold of you.”

“Have you? Didn’t notice,” Sherlock said absently, which was true—he’d spent most of the rest of the cab ride deep in thought. “We’ve got a case.”

“Yes, that would be why Lestrade’s been trying to call.” John rolled his eyes and pulled his coat on all the way.

Sherlock shook his head and flitted around the sitting room, grabbing random things and shoving them in his pockets. “Not that case, John, don’t be _boring._ This is a different case.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Better than a triple homicide and a locked room puzzle?”

“Much better,” Sherlock said, although the words did make him pause for just a moment. “More serious, more personal. We’re going to Fitton.”

“Are we?” John said, his other eyebrow going up. “…Where’s Fitton? I’ve never even _heard_ of Fitton.”

“You’ll be going somewhere new, then, won’t you?” Sherlock said with a manic grin. “Pack a bag, John. We may be away awhile. Be fast. I’m going to have a shower and throw some things together and we’ll be off.”

John grumbled and started up to his bedroom, then stopped. “Wait. Is there gel in your hair?”

“Hence the shower, John, _do_  try to keep up.” Sherlock Holmes vanished into the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been absent lately. I lost access to my laptop for a week while it was being updating and now I've moving into new college. Hopefully this long chunk makes up for it.


	5. Chapter 5

_The blackouts. –S_

_The first one, I think, was after I’d gotten back from a van job. I woke up the next morning and thought at first I’d just fallen asleep, but I was in your clothes. And there was a teacup on my desk, but it was on the wrong side of the chair. –M_

_Good noticing the teacup. Any other times? –S_

_I was driving to the airfield for a standby day and when I looked up again I was in twenty miles out of Fitton, heading west. And when we were in Maryland I decided to read a book in my hotel room. Next thing I know, I’m sunbathing on the beach. Not nude, thankfully. There was salt in my hair, like I’d been swimming. I thought it was you, for a case or an experiment or something, but there wasn’t any note. Then we fought in the flight deck and I knew it wasn’t you. Since then I haven’t been out for more than a few minutes at a time. –M_

_I need more details than that. Isn’t there anything else you can give me? –S_

_I’d tell you about the fight, but it was so quick, and it was all feelings anyway. –M_

_Your first officer witnessed the fights. I want to talk to him. –S_

_Sherlock, we don’t mix personal lives. Ever. –M_

_He might have seen something you missed, being locked up inside yourself. Interrogation necessary. –S_

_Interrogation? Are you going to attempt to intimidate Douglas Richardson? Because I’d like to see that. –M_

_I look forward to the challenge. –S_

If he really wanted to, he could probably record his talk with Douglas somehow so Martin could see it. When they were not much more than children he had recorded himself deducing and left it where Martin could find it to discover that Martin, like John would someday, rather enjoyed watching him work. In return, Martin had left out a video of himself. He hadn’t known what to say, so after a clumsy introduction, he’d picked up his new flight manual and began reading aloud. Deducing Martin had been the most fun he’d ever had without drugs, before he’d met John. The videos of Sherlock were rare now that he and John were flatmates and he had steady work, and videos of Martin were almost entirely limited to that one. 

Sherlock flittered his fingers over his phone, wondering absently whether he cared enough to retreat and let Martin continue the conversation now that he’d obviously received all possible information. Especially as Martin seemed hesitant to come to, scared that whoever it was would be waiting for him. The detective exhaled sharply, irritated at the whole idea. This one seemed a lot stronger than the others. He didn’t want to keep it—he was serious each time he told Martin he didn’t need another alter crowding up his brain—but in the end he may not have a choice. And that was frustrating, because establishing anything that looked like a working relationship with just Martin had been a long, dull nightmare, and Martin had been rather quick on the uptake. 

He’d gone through Martin’s flat the night before, while John kept the students busy downstairs. Best not let any of them know there may be something wrong with their favorite pilot. He’d found nothing particularly wrong with the small attic, except for the unnecessary fact that the usually oh-so-careful pilot had left in a panic. He went through all of Martin’s odd hiding places and storage spaces, but if the alter had left any sign of his presence, Martin had covered them up days ago. Sherlock took back his shirt, but left Martin’s uniform lying on the bed, gathering creases in all the wrong places.

And that brought him back to where he was now, lying on a second-rate hotel bed, because there were no first-rate hotels in Fitton, staring at a blank ceiling, fading in and out of proper consciousness in order to talk to Martin. He really did need more data. Of all the cases he ever took, the ones relevant to his own brain were the most difficult. 

Someone knocked on the hotel room door. “Go away,” Sherlock yelled. “Still thinking.” 

The door opened anyway—John, of course. John knew by now that if Sherlock was still thinking seriously he would have either said nothing or just growled. “Sherlock, what exactly is this case?” John asked, moving to the chair across the room and ignoring the glare following him. “We’ve been here nearly a day and all you’ve done is break into some poor bloke’s flat and stare at the ceiling for hours. Is this some sort of secret or something?” 

“Some sort,” Sherlock answered with a grunt. 

The doctor rolled his eyes. “You’re going to have to tell me something.” 

“Our client wishes to remain anonymous.”

“Anonymous to me, you mean,” John said, looking a little hurt. “Is it someone important again?” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Unbelievably important. But not in the way you’re thinking.” He sat up, knowing he had to say something but not knowing what words to choose. There was always a chance, always, that the next splinter personality could be violent, and he did _not_ want John in the way of that. “This case is serious, John, and it could be dangerous, but not in the usual way.” He hesitated again. “I would not have brought you if I didn’t need you. But I do need you. Very much.” 

John blinked, his mouth dropping open a bit. “All right, who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes? You know, my best friend, tall, standoffish, fond of saying ‘alone protects me?’” 

Sherlock flinched, just a bit, at the first sentence, but managed to smile at the second. “There will be a lot of…people involved in this case, I think, and you know how good I am at people.” 

“Oh, I see,” John teased with a small chuckle. “Running interference. Press agent. Consoler of frightened children and sobbing women. The usual, then.” 

The detective hesitated again. “…Yes. And…I may need you to hold me back.” _Or call me back,_ came the follow up thought he deleted with a wince. 

John was staring at him again, looking nervous for the first time, probably because he did not doubt he looked unsure himself. “…Okay,” John said, cocking his head. “Whatever you need. But…be careful, too, huh?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Good. Then we need to talk to a pilot.” He sprang up and headed for the door, not bothering to see if John was following. He always was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is coming along so slowly. Sorry everything's coming along so slowly, actually.


End file.
